


Voodoo Child

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Dark, Deathfic, F/M, Horror, Madness, R/NC-17 - Red Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-06
Updated: 2008-04-06
Packaged: 2019-01-20 16:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12437286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: You play me like a puppet, sticking pins in a doll. So here it comes, the sound of drums. (Here come the drums, here come the drums.)SPOILERS:for both series.





	Voodoo Child

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** For the [Spook Me Multi-fandom Halloween Challenge 2007](http://spook-me.livejournal.com/2587.html). I chose Zombie. Title, summary and plot points are from _Voodoo Child_ by Rogue Trader. The plot of the 50's B movie mentioned in the fic is "My World Dies Screaming", one of the 'secret' prompts from the Challenge. Here be plot. Which is bloody surprising, considering.

**Prologue**

 

 

_Images flashed in his mind, brief and warped. A steam train, brown and cream, racing through the night, the sound of the wheels making a clickety-clack, clickety-clack in the dark._

_Simon, from the Commissioner's Office, staring at him and playing with his ballpoint pen in yet another sterile meeting._

_A vinyl record, the song long since finished, still spinning on its turntable, each revolution bumping the needle back into the groove._

_A computer monitor, the keyboard in front strangely resembling a typewriter from the 1930s, his fingers dancing along the keyboard, each strike of the keys resounding in his head._

_A woman with a dog's head walked by, banging a drum and whistling the National Anthem…_

 

 

The snick of a lock jerked Sam awake. The first thought in his head was that his feet were cold. The second was that he appeared to be standing. The third was that he appeared to be standing in his hallway, outside his locked room door dressed only in thin cotton pyjamas on a freezing cold October morning.

 

 

With resignation, he checked the door. Definitely locked. And now that he had got the damn thing reinforced in order to discourage the Guv from kicking the door open too often, it was probably too much to hope for that he'd be able to kick it down himself. Especially as his feet were bare.

 

 

Looking round to check that there was no one else on the landing, Sam crouched down in the corner nearest the door and peeled back the fading and worn carpet. A floorboard, seemingly securely nailed down, was pulled up quickly and a key extracted. A key which opened the door easily, and which was quickly placed back in its hiding place.

 

 

Sam sat on the edge of his bed, his heart still pounding from some nightmare that had faded from memory, but left its effects in adrenaline and noradrenalin. It also left behind a vague sense of nausea and the beginnings of a migraine settling in behind his left eye.

 

 

He sighed. He had hoped that the night terrors and headaches would go away now he'd made his choice and returned to 1973, but it seemed that they hadn't. And they appeared to have been joined by a dose of sleepwalking, something he hadn't done since he was a little boy. Sam wondered briefly if he should see someone, but immediately dismissed the idea. Medicine in the early nineteen seventies couldn't really be described as prehistoric, but, at least to a twenty-first century man, it was a close-run thing.

* * * * *

**1.**

 

 

The body lay in the long grass by the side of a park. It was almost peaceful, as if the man had lain down for a nap. If one discounted the glassy, staring eyes.

 

 

"Who found the body?" Sam asked as he walked over to the cluster of detectives, standing to one side of the body.

 

 

Ray sniffed. "Dogwalker, early this morning. Didn't seen anything else, but she did mention that she walks the dogs down here every day, twice a day. She's sure that there was no sign of a body last night."

 

 

"What time was that?"

 

 

"Sometime after 9pm. Mrs. Richmond says she left the house straight after _Call My Bluff_ and was back in time for _The News at Ten_."

 

 

"That's a bit late for a lone woman walking a dog, especially at this time of year." Sam mused.

 

 

Ray quirked an eyebrow. "I don't know, boss. She owns two Alsatians. And she looks a bit like one, if you get what I mean."

 

 

Sam just glared at his Sergeant, who muttered an unapologetic 'sorry'.

 

 

"Anyway, she was back here at 7:30am. Alsatians need a lot of walking, you know. That's when they stumbled across him." Ray jerked a thumb towards the corpse.

 

 

"He looks vaguely familiar." Sam bent down to get a closer look.

 

 

Ray crouched next to Sam, by the side of the body, accidentally flicking ash over the man's face.

 

 

"Be careful," Sam admonished with a sigh.

 

 

Ray shrugged. "Sorry, boss." He stood back up, slowly. "It's Les Johnson. We pulled him in over that Park Road heist last week, only you let him go."

 

 

"We didn't have enough evidence," Sam explained patiently with an air of one who had explained it many times before and was certain he would have to explain it many times more. "And we still don't know for sure he did it."

 

 

"Well it looks like someone thought he did. Did him in for it and all."

 

 

"We don't even know that he's been murdered yet."

 

 

"It sure looks like it, with his head stove in like that."

* * * * *

**2.**

 

 

"It's more than that," Oswald said as he stood over to one side of the body as it lay in the morgue. I've no idea how he died at this time, but the head injury was made significantly after death."

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

"No idea, but I can tell you that his brain is missing." Oswald returned with a shrug.

 

 

Ray turned vaguely green. "What kind of sicko would do a thing like that?"

 

 

"Well that's more your department than mine. All I know is he's been dead two to three days, he was dumped well after death, he didn't drown and there are no other significant injuries on his body. He could've been suffocated or poisoned. I'll know more when we've run his blood work." He turned to his instrument tray, pointedly ignoring the trio of detectives.

 

 

Sam, Chris and Ray left the morgue, all deep in thought.

 

 

"Why did the killer remove the brain?" Sam mused.

 

 

"Because he's a sicko," remarked Ray, instantly.

 

 

"Perhaps he eats them," suggested Chris. "Like in that film we saw a few weeks ago; _Night of the Living Dead_ or summat."

 

 

"Don't be a div, Chris. Medical experiments, perhaps, Boss?"

 

 

Sam shook his head. "Not clinical enough. His head was crushed well after death, most likely in order to remove the brain. If a doctor or medical student had done it, they would've sawn off the top of the skull. More precise that way. This was amateur."

 

 

"Misdirection then?"

 

 

"Or a mad scientist, building a horrifying creature from the bodies of the living," remarked Chris with no small amount of glee.

 

 

"You and your films." Ray grumbled. "Next you'll be suggesting that it's the influence of a madman on an impressionable idiot, like that film we took Wilma and Karen to last week."

 

 

"Nah, real life is never like the plot of a bad 50's 'B' movie."

 

 

"Thank God. So it's either a zombie, a mad scientist or a nutter. One doesn't exist, the second only exists in draughty castles in remote foreign parts or in the bowels of exotic universities and we seem to run into the last one all the time. That narrows down the suspects."

 

 

"It could also be a sane killer who removed the brain to confuse us," reminded Chris, unconsciously betraying his ability to listen in the face of acting daft. 

 

 

"So we've not narrowed it down at all then." Ray lit up another cigarette and harrumphed in disgust.

 

 

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't look like it. We'll have to trawl through the old case files and shake down all of Les Johnson's acquaintances. And see if we can scare up any witnesses to the body dump."

 

 

"Great," muttered Ray. "More paperwork."

* * * * *

**3.**

 

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that work increases to fill the time allotted. It’s also a universally acknowledged truth that, just like buses, when you want work it's nowhere to be found. When you're rushed off your feet, however, some idiot will always try to rip someone else off. This time it was an armed robbery at an off-licence. Annie had been left baby-sitting the second perpetrator, along with a couple of uniform, although it was probable that he wasn't going anywhere. Not with that bullet wound in his leg. Meanwhile, Sam, Ray, Chris and Gene ran after the first as he made his way into a disused house.

 

 

Georgy Wilson was well known to the police and everyone in CID knew that catching him in the act of a robbery would finally put him away for good. All they had to do was actually catch him.

 

 

Sam, well in the lead, followed Georgy up the stairs on to the landing. He could hear the others behind him, he drew his gun and peered into the darkness. "Come out, Georgy," he called. "We've got you surrounded."

 

 

There was a noise from just in front of Sam and he turned, hearing the shot at the same time as he felt a crippling pain in his chest. He pitched backward with a yell, hitting the floor with his shoulder and instinctively curling to the side as Ray and Chris thundered past him, yelling like berserkers.

 

 

Gene stopped and bent over him, uncharacteristic worry in his eyes. "Bloody hell, Sam." He knelt, and hand shaking slightly moved Sam's own to inspect the damage.

 

 

Gene frowned and stood up. "Well it looks like you're not dead yet."

 

 

"What?" Sam muttered thickly, around the pain still ripping through his chest.

 

 

'"Georgy obviously missed. So unless you're having a heart attack down there, I suggest you pick yourself up and we get after the other two before they do something I regret."

 

 

Gene hauled Sam upright and hared after Ray and Chris as Sam staggered. Holding himself up, he inspected his chest in the dim light. No blood, no wound, just a lot of pain, which even now was abating. Sam shook his head and frowned. He had felt the bullet pass through him, had felt his blood pouring out onto the ground. He glanced at his feet, there was nothing. As the pain faded into a dull ache, Sam followed the Guv and the others, to see whether there was anything left of Georgy.

* * * * *

**4.**

 

 

That night in The Railway Arms was a subdued affair. Gene seemed to be blaming Sam and his 'girly fainting fits' for Georgy getting away and was pointedly ignoring his Inspector. Sam was vaguely relieved, however, that Ray and Chris hadn't caught up with Georgy. He really didn't like it when suspects ended up in the morgue, rather than the cells where they belonged.

 

 

"You started smoking on the sly, eh, Sam?"

 

 

Sam broke out of his reverie and stared up at Annie. "What?"

 

 

"You've got a bloody great cigarette burn in the middle of your chest." Annie leant forward and touched him just below the breastbone. 

 

 

Normally Sam would've taken private pleasure in the almost caress, but for now he was worried. He looked down and indeed spotted a small round hole, slightly singed around the edge. It could be a cigarette burn, if one had been that close to his shirt, but it was also exactly in the same spot he remembered the bullet entering.

 

 

He looked back up at Annie who had cocked her head to one side and was obviously waiting for an answer of some kind.

 

 

"I'm sorry, Annie, what did you say?"

 

 

"I said, if you've started smoking then I'd appreciate it if you brush your teeth before taking me out on Saturday night. Kissing a man who smokes is like kissing an ashtray."

 

 

Sam shook his head, "I've not started smoking again, Annie."

 

 

"So how did that happen then?"

 

 

"I don't know." Sam looked thoughtful for a moment, "Excuse me, I need to, you know."

 

 

Annie nodded and Sam got up and disappeared into the Gents.

 

 

He immediately locked himself in one of the cubicles and unbuttoned his shirt, looking for any signs of the bullet wound. There was a slight red mark, but it could've been anything. Apart from the small hole in the front of his shirt and a lingering ache that could be psychosomatic, there was nothing at all.

 

 

Sam exited the bathroom deep in thought. He slid up on to a stool at the bar and indicated to Nelson. A scotch appeared in front of him and downed it almost without noticing.

 

 

Perhaps he couldn't die in this reality. After all, he'd already died once. Maybe that was it for this lifetime. It would be a great asset for CID if that were true. Except, he had certainly felt it as if it were real. The price to pay for immortality was obviously lots of pain and having to endure countless 'swooning' jokes at his expense. Which didn't seem so worth it really. Plus it was only a working hypothesis and, as useful as it could be, it probably wasn't worth the risk of testing it out in the short run.

 

 

Yes, better to leave that well-buried if or until there was cause to investigate it further. He slid off his stool and bade goodnight to the rest of the team, under the pretence of chivalrously offering to walk Annie home, but instead secretly glad that he had an excuse to get home to think about this more in private.

* * * * *

**5.**

 

 

It was dark here. It was dark because it was night. The streets were empty, cast in shadow and hazy pools of yellow light. Sam glanced around, trying to work out where he was, but he didn't recognise anything at all. The street-signs were a blur to him, he was running. Running towards something or running away from something, Sam couldn't remember. Why was he here? What was he doing?

 

 

He knew he was here for something, knew that there was something that he needed to do. Was compelled to do. But all he could concentrate on was the slap, slap, slap, slap of his feet on the pavement, beating out some ancient rhythm, the beat of his heart serving a counterpoint, making the music so strong that he had to follow it, wherever it led.

 

 

His flight or fight was, at that point, arrested by a small hand, chill on his bare arm. Sam glanced down in shock to see the Test Card Girl standing there.

 

 

"Sam, Sam, Sam. What are you doing out so late at night?"

 

 

"What are you doing here?"

 

 

"I'm here to save you, Sam. All you have to do is trust me."

 

 

Sam shook himself free. "I'll never trust you!" he cried, and ran off down the road not looking back, terrified that she was gaining on him.

 

 

He didn't pay attention to where he was running to for a while, and he came to his senses with a shock when he realised he was running down a canal towpath. How had he got here, he wondered? Why did he feel such a compulsion?

 

 

There was a figure ahead of him, the dim light obscuring all but the barest details. As Sam drew closer he realised it was a man and as that man turned round at Sam's approach, he realised it was Frank Morgan.

 

 

That was it. He was here to meet with Frank Morgan. But why? He stopped running as he drew up level with the man.

 

 

"DI Williams," Morgan acknowledged. "You wanted to see me?"

 

 

"Yeah, I, um, I needed to talk. About, about Mr. O'Malley."

 

 

Morgan's head whipped round as if he'd been slapped and he looked pale and shocked. "What the hell do you know about Mr. O'Malley?" He hissed.

 

 

Sam shrugged. "Oh, enough. He sends his regards," and Sam lunged at Morgan, his hand curled under, burying itself into Morgan's stomach and wrenching upwards, hitting Morgan's sternum with a jarring force. Sam could feel warmth and wet seeping onto his hand and he realised that blood was pouring out of Morgan's open mouth, muffling his screams into something approaching a gurgle.

 

 

He pulled his hand back immediately and Morgan flopped to the floor like a puppet with the strings cut. He twitched for a few moments and went still as Sam stared at his right hand, the hand that was still holding a long, sharp, kitchen knife bathed in blood and spattered with flesh.

 

 

Sam woke with a start. The dark room was filled with the high-pitch humming of the TV, but other than that, all was still. Sam immediately got up and switched on the light, checking for blood, for the knife, for anything, but finally realising that it was just a nightmare, he heaved a sigh of relief.

 

 

He sat back down on his cot and reached again for the whisky bottle, knowing that it was unlikely that he'd be able to sleep again that night without it.

* * * * *

**6.**

 

 

The next morning, Sam stared at his reflection, there was something definitely wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

 

 

He looked vaguely like death warmed over. Not quite hangover green, but there was a definite pale cast to his features and his eyes were red-rimmed. He stuck his tongue out and shrugged. Obviously a diet of life-threatening chases, nightmares, passive smoking, more grease than he'd eaten in years and vast quantities of whisky was taking its toll. Sam was surprised to actually feel relieved at that. At least this reality was having an effect on him, even if it was a little sketchy on the physics of projectiles and their effect on the human body.

 

 

His skin was also very dry, almost peeling in places. Well, it was probably expected in a place where male skin products were decades off being produced. Hell, he had to make do with either Vosene or floral-scented shampoo. But still. He vaguely wondered if could get hold of some cold cream, then shuddered again at the prospect of having to explain to Ray or Gene what it was doing in the bathroom cabinet.

 

 

With a shrug, Sam exited the bathroom, pulling on his jacket and heading out the door. He would just have to get used to looking his age in this reality, rather than his age in the twenty-first century, a prospect that filled him with no small dread.

 

 

Annie greeted him with a smile as he made his way into the offices and Sam smiled back. At least he'd already got the girl. Perhaps she'd overlook the rapid ageing process. After all it's what you did with it that counted, not what it looked like. Sam sighed again, it wasn't if he was that practised at what you did with it either anymore. But Annie didn't seem to complain, she was a girl of long healthy walks, trips to the pictures and a smattering of going to bad dance halls. And some kissing. Some very nice kissing. Perhaps Sam could get in some of that practice later.

 

 

He licked his lips unconsciously and Annie grinned as if she knew exactly what had gone through his head. With all the weird stuff that was going on at the moment, Sam considered that it wouldn't be that strange if she had developed mind-reading abilities. But no, she obviously knew him too well or just looked on him as a typical man, obsessed by sex and thinking about it all the time.

 

 

Not that wrong there, then.

 

 

"Still no word on Les Johnson, then?" she remarked as he sat down at his desk.

 

 

"Nope. Not a dicky-bird. Looks like the scientists are having a field day with that one. Where's the Guv?"

 

 

"He's down at the bank on the corner of King Street and Spring Gardens. It seems there's been another one."

 

 

"Another? Christ." Sam leapt out of his chair. "Why didn't anyone pick me up this morning? It's not as if the Guv isn't known for crashing into my flat in the early hours of the morning."

 

 

"He said you needed your beauty sleep and that you'd probably just faint at the sight of blood again." She peered at him closely, "You are looking a bit peaky, Sam. Bad night again?"

 

 

"Something like that. Huh, I take it he's still mad at me for losing Georgy Wilson, eh? I better get my skates on then."

* * * * *

**7.**

 

 

The team were just finishing up as Sam finally made his way into the bank. Gene sniffed loudly.

 

 

"Nice of you to finally make it, Gladys," he remarked, lighting a fresh cigarette and glaring at his DI with a strange look in his eyes.

 

 

"Sorry, Guv. I've only just got the message. What's happened?"

 

 

"Colin Jeffries, the manager of the bank. He was found this morning by his secretary, still sat at his desk. Same as Les Johnson, only this one's a little fresher."

 

 

"Have forensics gone over the crime scene yet?"

 

 

"Who the bloody hell do you take me for? Yes, and they found nowt."

 

 

"Nothing?"

 

 

"No prints, none of that blood spatter you're so interested in, no interesting little bits of paper saying 'meet murderer, 8pm', nowt. Waste of bleeding time, in my opinion."

 

 

"Well, the absence of evidence is as much a clue as a big honking confession, Guv."

 

 

"Really?" Gene didn't look convinced.

 

 

"Did they really find nothing at all?" asked Sam, rather plaintively.

 

 

"Bugger all. And that's word for word what they said."

 

 

"Well, I'll just have a look round myself, eh?"

 

 

Gene stared at Sam for a moment before shrugging and turning away. "Knock yourself out, Sammy-boy. The lads are off back to the station."

 

 

Sam nodded morosely and made his way over the manager's office. He grabbed Chris as he passed. "Have a look into Mr. Jeffries' background, Chris. It will be very telling if we can find out any common links between him and Les Johnson. After all, how many points in common can a bank manager and a bank robber have, eh?"

 

 

"Apart from working in banks, Boss?"

 

 

"Yes, Chris, apart from that. See if they frequented the same pubs, or had family or acquaintances in common."

 

 

Chris nodded, a serious look on his face. "Wilco, Boss."

* * * * *

**8.**

 

 

Next morning, Chris handed Sam a file complete with a cup of tea and a beaming smile. "Blood work's back on Les Johnson, Boss. Oh, and tea."

 

 

Sam, still a little sore about the day before, snapped back, "What, no bourbons this morning?"

 

 

A look of hurt flashed across Chris' face, and Sam felt momentarily guilty. He shouldn't take his sleepless nights out on the team. If nothing else, it was bad for morale.

 

 

Chris rallied himself and spoke again. "Looks like ol' Les was poisoned. Something exotic, Oswald said. Similar to, um, TCP, I think?"

 

 

"THC, Chris. Marijuana. Dope, you know?"

 

 

"I'm not a dope," muttered Chris, and slunk off back to his desk, picking up a newspaper which had the murders as the main headline. 

 

 

The papers were insisting on calling the perpetrator 'The Zombie Killer!', even though Sam had explained to one of them, in a fit of pique and most probably slightly more than half drunk, that surely that meant that the killer killed zombies, not that he killed them in a zombie fashion. Which, on second thoughts, probably hadn't done the investigation much good. Certainly there had been a lot of lurid detail in the local press on the zombie-like fashion of disposal for both the victims. This had done much to upset both victims' families and also upset the Chief Superintendent, who upset Gene, who upset Sam. Who, in turn, had just upset Chris.

 

 

Sam sighed, he would have to make it up to Chris later. After he had some caffeine, preferably. He glanced through the file. There was no indication of the origin of the drug, only that it was incredibly pure and was of a very high dose. It had probably been administered in a drink, spirits or something else to mask the bitter flavour.

 

 

Annie wandered past with a cheerful "Good morning," and Sam knocked a pen off the table in distraction. He bent down behind his desk, resting one hand on the partially open bottom drawer and to pick up the pen, looking up as he did so and catching a glimpse of a well-turned heel.

 

 

Paying more attention to Annie than to what he was doing, he didn't notice catching his hand in the drawer. He did, however notice a small object flick off the side of the drawer and land on the floor next to the pen.

 

 

He picked up the object and looked at it with horror. _What the fuck?_ He started to shake uncontrollably, what the hell was happening here?

 

 

"Gladys, stop falling apart, you big sissy!" Gene called from his office. "We don't need your dramatics here at the moment."

 

 

Sam looked up, then back down at the finger in his hand. The finger, which to all rights, should be on the other hand and wasn't. _Right. Stop falling apart. Easier said than done._ He sighed. Perhaps Annie had a sewing kit in her desk.

* * * * *

**9.**

 

 

It was dark down here, the empty warehouses casting their vast shadows in the fading light. Sam checked his watch. He was supposed to have met up with Billy ten minutes ago, and Billy was never late. Something must've happened. Sam shrugged and pushed off the wall, starting to walk back to the main road. That had been a spectacular waste of time.

 

 

He turned the corner and ran straight into someone. He pulled back slightly, frowning at the unknown assailant before stepping back and to one side.

 

 

"Bloody hell!" 

 

 

Sam jerked at the sound of the familiar voice. He looked behind the first man and stared straight into the frightened eyes of Georgy Wilson.

 

 

At the same time he felt a sudden breeze on his neck and a blinding pain in his head. Everything went black.

 

 

Sam slowly came to consciousness with the pleasant sensation of someone kissing him, and then pressure in his lungs. He coughed once and felt the other person jerk back as a band of pain circled his ribs and he started to cough uncontrollably. He faintly felt hands on his back, turning him to the side and he vomited what seemed like half the North Sea onto the ground.

 

 

The same hands laid him back down and Sam lay for a moment, trying to catch his breath before opening his eyes and staring into the white, frightened face of Annie. 

 

 

"What happened?" Sam croaked, his throat sore.

 

 

Annie shook her head, mouth working, but no sound coming out. Her eyes were wide.

 

 

"We fished you out of the canal, Boss."

 

 

Sam turned to the sound of the second voice. Chris, who had obviously just helped him on to his side and back again, was crouched by his head. 

 

 

"We were walking down the towpath, like. And we heard a scream. So we both started running. When we got there, you were floating face down. So we pulled you out. We thought you were dead, but Annie started to give you the kiss of life and you woke up."

 

 

Chris sounded vaguely impressed while Sam was embarrassingly relieved that it was Annie and not Chris that had administered CPR.

 

 

"How did you get in the canal, Boss?"

 

 

Sam tried to sit up, but realised that his hands were bound in front of him. He raised them to his face as Chris supported him into a sitting position and Annie, no longer frozen and with an inexplicable look of relief on her face, took a small pocket knife out of her handbag and started to cut the cords.

 

 

"Georgy Wilson." Sam spat. "I'd gone to meet with an informant down by the warehouses, but he wasn't there. So I started to walk back and ran into him and one or two associates. They obviously panicked because the last thing I remember was being hit on the head." Sam raised a hand to the back of his head, but everything was wet and everything still hurt. "Next thing I know I woke up here. Incidentally, where is here?"

 

 

"We're down near the Salford Quays, Boss." 

 

 

In the meantime, Annie had managed to cut the bindings and placed them in a small plastic bag she pulled out. Sam nodded at her, approving.

 

 

"What were you two doing down here?"

 

 

Chris looked vaguely shifty. "Um, we were taking a short cut, boss. Back from Trafford Park, when we heard the scream."

 

 

"Did you see who the screamer was?"

 

 

"No Boss. When we got here there was no-one around."

 

 

"Damn. Though I suppose there'll be no witnesses anyway." He glanced at his watch only to realise that it was waterlogged and no longer working. "What time is it?"

 

 

"It's about ten o'clock, boss."

 

 

"Three hours since I was supposed to meet my informant. Right. I suppose we'd better get back to the station and see what we can drum up. I think I remember the face of one of Georgy's friends.

 

 

"Um, Sir. You're not going anywhere," Annie interjected, finally finding her voice. "An ambulance is on the way and, if nothing else, it sounds like you had a nasty crack to the head. Again. And you inhaled a lot of water from the canal. It's not the nicest water in the world. You should get it checked out."

 

 

"Nonsense. I feel right as rain." And, Sam realised, that was true. He was damp, sure. But his lungs no longer hurt and his habitual headache was gone. His mind felt clear and sharp, better than it had done for weeks.

 

 

"I need to get all this down while it is fresh in my mind. Once I've done that, and if you're still not happy, I'll happily submit to the ministrations of our local health service."

 

 

"Well, at least take this." Chris held out his jacket. "You must be freezing, you're wet through and it's a bitter night."

 

 

Sam took the jacket slowly, realising that he was cold and realising that he was in his shirt sleeves. "Where's my jacket?"

 

 

Annie shook her head. "I don't know. You weren't wearing it when we pulled you out."

 

 

"Georgy or one of his friends must have appropriated it for some purpose." Sam reasoned. "A warning to CID perhaps?"

 

 

"Perhaps he just thought it were cool, Boss."

 

 

"Perhaps." Sam sighed. That was something else he would have to have a chat with Georgy about. "Let's get back." 

 

 

And as they slowly walked back to the station, Sam tried not to dwell on what must have happened in the three hours and two miles since he'd last seen Georgy.

* * * * *

**10.**

 

 

Gene and Chris had gone to talk to Mrs. Jeffries, and Sam was feeling more than ever ignored. The Guv had been leaving him out of many things recently and Sam couldn't work out why. "Good practice" is what Gene had termed it, training for Chris. But Sam couldn't help but think that it was something to do with himself, something he had done or not done.

 

 

Just maybe the Guv was protecting him. It had been a hell of a week so far, being shot and drowned in quick succession. But that theory didn't sit so well. The Guv had dragged him practically off his deathbed once, so why he should leave Sam out of the loop when Sam felt fine, he didn't know.

 

 

Punishment for Georgy Wilson still being out there, free to do whatever he wanted. Free to hurt other people. That's what it was. Sam wouldn't mind too much, but he'd been taken off that case too. It'd been given to DS Parker, with a snide remark from Gene about doing better than had been done so far.

 

 

Sam sighed and stared down at the case file. They had no leads, no witnesses and no evidence so far. He had failed to find a link between Les Johnson, the notorious burglar, and Colin Jeffries, the respected bank manager. Les had hung around rough pubs, planning his small time robberies in between playing pool and trips to the bookies. Colin had been a pillar of society, a member of the Rotary Club and an upstanding member of his local church. Enquiries had done nothing except annoy several prominent people and upset his secretary.

 

 

Sam turned back to the autopsy report. Again, apart from the fact that the brain had been removed from both men, there was very little similarity in the cases. Les Johnson had been poisoned with a very high dose of a very exotic poison. So exotic, the science boys still hadn't been able to identify it properly. Colin had been garrotted with thin cord, most likely surprised while working late one night. His head had been smashed hours after death, like Les, but unlike Les, he hadn't been moved at all.

 

 

Even a personal look at the second corpse hadn't revealed anything further, except that Oswald apparently had a very dubious taste in music. No skin under the fingernails, no unusual looking bruises or marks. The face had looked very slightly familiar, though.

 

 

An image rose, unbidden, in his mind. Voices raised, a view from between the banisters, hiding at the top of the stairs as his mum and a man argued. The pair came into view, the man was holding onto his mum's wrist as she tried to plead that it wasn't meant that way, that she was still a married woman. A stifled sob stopping them both as he crouched in fear. The man looking straight up at him…

 

 

Sam shook his head to clear those thoughts. It didn't matter, a thirty-year-old memory that was still in the future didn't count. It wasn't relevant to the investigation in any way. Unless of course, he was populating this imaginary world with people he knew subconsciously, picking out their fates in revenge for long-buried hurt. Which was silly, and Sam knew it.

 

 

He sighed and concentrated on putting the files into order. If the Guv didn't want him to do his job, he could at least do what Sam thought as part of the job.

* * * * *

**11.**

 

 

Sam looked morosely over into the corner, where Gene, Ray and Chris were playing cards. 

 

 

"The Guv still not talking to you, then?" Annie enquired.

 

 

"He is, as long as 'Tyler, you're useless' and 'stop moping around my office, Gladys' counts as talking to me," Sam replied in a bitter voice.

 

 

Annie reached over and squeezed his hand. "The Guv'll come round, he always does. He's just a little worried. We all are."

 

 

"Why would you be worried?" Sam frowned.

 

 

Annie stared. Regret at mentioning anything showed plainly on her face, but she was a brave girl. She took a deep breath. "You're, you're acting a bit strange that's all. You're not sleeping, you're drinking too much and I'm worried that you've even started smoking. This isn't like you, Sam. I'm just concerned that there's something really wrong with you."

 

 

It was obvious she was trying to address the previous 'insanity' issue without actually mentioning it. Annie had never believed Sam when he said he was from the future. And although Sam didn't blame her, it hurt to know that she thought he might be completely round the bend. And now this. If she didn't previously believe the evidence of a man who had time-travelled, how would she trust his word on the fact that he might be immortal, that death could not touch him?

 

 

She wouldn't, that was all. Annie would argue that Sam had only been in the water a few seconds the other night, that he had been pushed in or had jumped moments before her and Chris stumbled across the scene.

 

 

Thoughts tumbled through his head and with icy shock, he finally realised what had caused that look of relief on Annie's face as he had shown her his bound hands. She thought he had jumped, that he was trying to kill himself.

 

 

Bile rose in his throat and it was all Sam could do to courteously excuse himself from Annie's presence without letting her know what was going through his mind. To take the burning taste away he signalled Nelson for a shot of whisky, draining it in one before leaning against the bar and thinking hard. Annie thought he was insane, suicidal or both. The Guv thought he was a complete fuck-up, hiding like a coward from suspects rather than getting the job done.

 

 

He fingered the note in the breast pocket of his third-best shirt, the first having been drowned to death in the canal the other night and his second-best shirt, the one with the burn mark, having temporarily been misplaced. The note promised answers to the question most plaguing him at the moment, who had killed Colin Jeffries and Les Johnson. As long as he played the game, he now had an informant who would blow the case wide open. He would show them exactly how cowardly he was.

 

 

He surreptitiously checked his watch. He had somewhere to be tonight, if only he could avoid questions from the rest of them. If the Guv thought he was too useless to be in on the case, he would just have to prove him wrong.

* * * * *

**12.**

 

 

As Sam looked up at the smiling face of Georgy Wilson, he reflected that it probably hadn't been a good idea to act on an anonymous tip-off alone. As much as he wanted to know who had killed Les Johnson and Colin Jeffries, and as much as he was worried that one of the others could get hurt, and as much as Sam did think he was nigh on immortal now, well, there was still something insanely suicidal in turning up to a well-concealed meeting spot without some kind of back-up. Especially as he had had to work extra hard to shake off Chris who now apparently seemed to feel like he was personally responsible for his DI.

 

 

"Shit."

 

 

Georgy's smile grew wider. "Ah, DI Tyler, you have caused me no end of problems recently. And now, I'm going to remove the source of those problems. Third time lucky, at least. Kid, pick him up."

 

 

Strong arms lifted Sam back into a standing position and, as Georgy steadied Sam by holding onto his bound arms, a length of what seemed to be piano wire was passed under his chin. Then Kid pulled on it, hard, wrenching Sam's head back and cutting through his windpipe in one smooth move. Sam could feel a flood of warm fluid pour down his chest. Everything was going black, as his blood pounded in his ears, he couldn't breathe, his head was spinning, but with a last-ditch effort, he kicked out, catching Georgy in the crotch.

 

 

Georgy went down with a thud, letting go of Sam's arms as he tried to protect his most vital parts, ever displaying evidence of locking the stable door after the horse had bolted. Almost immediately, the welcome sound of Gene's voice sounded through the warehouse:

 

 

"Come out, you murdering scum. You're surrounded by armed bastards!"

 

 

Kid immediately dropped Sam next to the wheezing form of Georgy and legged it, and Sam, still desperately trying to grab the next breath and failing, saw two pairs of legs running after the fleeing figure.

 

 

A third pair stopped and in normal circumstances Sam would've appreciated a birds-eye view of those black-clad, well-formed legs, unencumbered by the normal view of skirt. But these weren't normal circumstances.

 

 

The legs crouched down in front on Sam and the owner's face came into view. Annie quickly cuffed the still wheezing Georgy and turned her attention to Sam, picking up the wire with no small amount of disgust.

 

 

"Lucky we arrived in time to stop them using this on you, eh, Boss?" She rolled up the wire and popped into a bag, then quickly untied Sam's wrists. She carefully looked at his neck. "You're bleeding, here," and she applied one of her numerous clean hankies to the shallow cut under his chin. "Just in the nick of time, eh?"

 

 

Sam nodded, wordlessly, still trying to get air into his lungs. The effort was easing, but he still didn't trust himself to speak. This, he decided, was getting ridiculous.

* * * * *

**13.**

 

 

Another body had been found and Sam again hadn't been informed until his arrival at the station by Phyllis. This was starting to become a habit. Although it seemed that, at least this time, he was actually wanted at the crime scene. Chris had apparently radioed in to find out where he was, and Phyllis had been in the act of despatching one of the PCs to go and collect him as Sam had wandered into the station.

 

 

He stalked across the grass of a school playing field to where the rest of the gang was congregated. His headache, although still there, had abated slightly and he felt good. Cheerful almost, at least until he finally reached Annie, Chris and Ray, who all had very solemn looks on their faces.

 

 

"What's up today?" he queried.

 

 

"Another one from the mental case," Ray sniffed. "Brain removed, just like the others."

 

 

"Another one?" Sam queried.

 

 

"Yeah, and you're not going to like it." Ray lit up another cigarette and indicated over to the left with his hand. "You might find out that he's familiar."

 

 

Sam frowned. "Who is it?"

 

 

"He's over there."

 

 

Sam wandered over to Gene and looked at him with askance. "Who is it?"

 

 

"See for yourself."

 

 

Sam looked down at the corpse and stepped back immediately in shock. The glassy eyes of Frank Morgan stared back at him with an accusing gaze. Sam barely noticed the mangled forehead as he realised that Morgan had been almost gutted, the knife wounds in his stomach savage and brutal. The headache grew instantly worse, pounding in his head, making his eyes water. He turned and threw up, unceremoniously.

 

 

Gene sniffed. "Bloody hell, you're worse than a plonk, sometimes, Gladys." He fixed his DI with a piercing glare. "So you do know who our corpse is, then?"

 

 

"It's DCI Frank Morgan, as you well know." Sam retorted as he wiped his mouth. The headache was causing spots in his vision and Sam wasn't sure that he could stand up much longer. "I've, I've got a headache. Excuse me," and he ran.

* * * * *

**14.**

 

 

Sam nursed his second glass of whisky and thought hard. Frank Morgan had been gutted before the brain was removed. And Sam had dreamt of gutting Frank Morgan. It was a hell of a coincidence. Plus, all the strange things that had been happening – the three near-deaths, or actual deaths, Sam was still not quite sure which, at Georgy Wilson's hand. What if Sam had finally gone irrevocably insane, and murdered those men. But, even if he could understand getting even with Les Johnson, who had left an old woman in a coma a month ago and getting revenge on Frank Morgan for nearly destroying his team, why would he murder Colin Jeffries? But, what if the papers were right and he really was a zombie? Then he wouldn't need a reason. It would just be the insane urgings of a monster. But what kind of voodoo could've caused it? Surely Sam would've remembered being murdered and his brains eaten? Which led to another horrifying thought: what if he really had eaten the brains of the three murdered men…

 

 

He drained the whisky in one, attempting to mask the bad taste in his mouth that the image brought with it, and he pushed the glass back towards Nelson for a top-up.

 

 

Nelson did so, setting the bottle by the side of the glass and turning back to polish his glasses without a word.

 

 

It was strange, stranger than anything else that had happened to Sam in a very long while. 

 

 

"Nelson," Sam said, still musing, "Do you believe in zombies?"

 

 

"The living dead, Sam?" Nelson turned, smiling slightly. "In a sense, they all around us. Living day-to-day, but dead inside."

 

 

"No, I mean as in horror films. Living off the brains of the living, and all that."

 

 

"I don't know, Sam. It sound like a really bad film plot to me."

 

 

"Yeah, I know," Sam said morosely, swilling the whisky round in the glass then taking another sip. "Is this the usual brand, Nelson? It tastes a little bitter to me."

 

 

Nelson shrugged. "It's the same one you been drinking for months, Sam."

 

 

Sam picked up the bottle, carefully reading the label, then holding the bottle up to the light. "There's some kind of sediment in here, Nelson. I don't recall whisky ever having lees."

 

 

Nelson shrugged again and repeated himself. "It's the same stuff you've been drinking for months."

 

 

The cogs in Sam's mind turned slowly, processing all the little bits of information. His head was feeling woozy, more so than it should be after three glasses of the spirit, even with the shock of seeing Morgan's body that morning. He finally reached his terrifying conclusion and, sliding off his barstool, stared over at Nelson in horror.

 

 

"You!"

 

 

Nelson walked round the bar to stand in front of a swaying Sam and smiled an evil smile. "Finally you work it out. It's been me all along, pulling your strings, making you dance."

 

 

Sam frowned. This didn't make sense. "But voodoo doesn't come from Jamaica, it comes from Haiti. And there's lots of evidence to suggest it's a drug-induced form of mind-control, not legions of the undead walking the earth."

 

 

Nelson raised an eyebrow. "Details, schemtails. The devil's in the details, after all. Isn't that right, Detective Inspector? And the devil is in you." He leaned in closer, whispering into Sam's ear. "Can't you feel him crawling through your veins, can't you hear the drums? Dance to those drums, Sam, dance for me."

 

 

Sam started to jerk uncontrollably and Nelson smiled.

 

 

"Ah, my puppet. My personal little avenging angel. This is sweet. Of course, now you've done my bidding, I've no further need for you. Except one." 

 

 

He stalked forward, hands holding something and Sam threw up his hands, desperately trying to regain control of his body as Nelson held out a crude doll, winding some sort of thread around it, from the ankles upwards. Inexplicably, Sam could feel a kind of paralysis creeping up his legs, binding him to the spot.

 

 

"This, this isn't happening."

 

 

"But how can you be sure, Sam? How can you be sure that those drums in your head haven't driven you completely insane? Murdering Johnson, a man who accosted you on the street? Murdering Frank Morgan who still held the keys to your downfall back at CID? Did you kill them to get rid of them, Sam? Or did you eat their brains; are you truly a creature of nightmare now, destined to roam the night with your insatiable appetite until brought down by a hunter more terrifying than yourself? Who are you, Sam? Who are you really?"

 

 

"That's not true, none of it is true. I'm not a zombie. Zombies don't exist. I'm not your puppet. I didn't kill those men. What did Frank Morgan and Les Johnson and Colin Jeffries have over you, Nelson? What did they do?"

 

 

"It's details, I'm sure, but they tried to own me, if you really want to know. They tried to own me and they paid the price. Whether I killed them is academic, all the evidence points to you, and any jury will convict you. All is well now, just a few loose ends to tie up, and that won't take long. Can you hear them, Sam? Can you hear them getting closer?"

 

 

The pounding in Sam's head was loud, drums in his head. It was dizzy, disorientating. The room was spinning, the only thing Sam could focus on was Nelson's macabre grin as he cocked his head to one side, holding out the puppet and dropping it to the floor. Sam fell to his knees, hands over his ears, his screams not even drowning out the drums. He heard hysterical laughter overlaying everything as his vision went blank and he lost consciousness.

* * * * *

**15.**

 

 

Sam awoke to realise that his head was no longer pounding and that he appeared to still be alive, or at least akin to it. Everything was quiet, there seemed to be no hysterical madmen running around or evil barmen waiting to collect their last tab. There was a definable aura to the place, one that said 'home', or at least said 'police station', which was as near as dammit. Piecing together the last things he remembered, and these further facts, Sam decided that Nelson must've called the station, in order to hand Sam over as the culprit.

 

 

Shifting slightly, Sam also realised that he was lying on something slightly softer than one of the benches in the cells. He opened his eyes slowly, warily, and, once he'd managed to focus, realised that he was in the Guv's office, lying on the rather lumpy couch. He cautiously manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, almost jumping out of his skin when he heard a voice speak.

 

 

"Ah, Sammy-boy, you're back with us then?"

 

 

"Why aren't I in the cells?" was the only thing he could think of asking.

 

 

Gene chuckled. "Why would we be banging you up now, eh Sam? Unless there's anything you want to confess to?"

 

 

"What about Morgan, Jeffries and Johnson? What has Nelson told you?"

 

 

"Oh, he's told us plenty. Turns out that our local barman was in a bit of a bind. Colin Jeffries wouldn't approve Nelson for a business loan and it seems that Les Johnson was rather upset that he had been set up for the Park Road heist. Things were starting to get out of control."

 

 

"And Morgan?"

 

 

"He apparently knew all about it. In fact it will probably turn out that Morgan started Nelson on the whole drug thing in the first place. And set you up as a nice revenge kick for himself. Problem is, it backfired on him. Nelson didn't necessarily want anyone else sharing his secret. Yes, it was easy once we knew the right questions to ask. And I'm eternally grateful for you for providing us with them."

 

 

"What do you mean by that?"

 

 

"Well, you'd been acting odd for days, saying silly things, doing even more stupid ones. Well, more stupid than normal. So I got Cartwright and Chris to keep tabs on you. They followed you down to the Arms and listened to your chat with Mr. Nelson O'Malley. That's how we knew to come in at the point we did."

 

 

"You had Chris and Annie keeping tabs on me?"

 

 

"Just as well that we did, sunshine, considering the number of times you've been nearly dead in the last fortnight. Cartwright was all for sending you to a shrink. She said some very strange things about you. But I reckoned that there had to be something else going on."

 

 

Sam winced at the remembrance of just how much he had ranted about Gene in the last week or so.

 

 

Gene continued. "Well, we searched Nelson's flat and turned up lots of interesting things. Including the missing brains. He was keeping them in jars, you know. Weird bloke. And we found out what he was feeding you with. We reckon he was slipping it in your whisky. A nice hallucinogenic, sort of like LSD, but more potent. Inducing paranoia, dizzy spells and euphoria. I bet it gave you some interesting dreams."

 

 

Sam grimaced, remembering some of those dreams. "Why did I end up in a world where everyone seems to think that feeding me hallucinogenic drugs is amusing?" he wailed plaintively.

 

 

"We'll never know that one, Sammy-boy. Although I have to confess that I do find it a little amusing."

 

 

Sam glared at Gene for a moment before levering himself off the sofa. "I suppose I better go home then, sleep this lot off." And he walked towards the door.

 

 

"Sam?"

 

 

Sam turned back to Gene, who was holding something out in front of him.

 

 

"My jacket. Where did you find it?"

 

 

"Parker found it at Georgy and Reggie Wilson's place. Seems ole Georgy had taken a fancy to it. I always thought he was a bit of a ponce."

 

 

Sam grabbed it and pulled it on, pointedly ignoring the last remark. "At least I'm going to be warm now," he muttered and he turned to open the door. Pausing again, he looked at Gene. "So it looks like we're going to have to find another barman for the Arms, then, eh Guv?"

 

 

Gene looked mournful for a moment. "Aye. And there's the real tragedy of the entire case."

* * * * *

**Epilogue**

 

 

It was dark here. It was dark because it was night. Sam woke to find the Test Card Girl standing over him, and he flinched back into his pillow. She put a finger to her lips.

 

 

"Didn't I tell you I was your friend?" she asked. "I tried to stop you and you wouldn't listen. You never listen to me."

 

 

Sam shook his head. "You're in on this, I know you are. You're a hallucination and you're just here to torment me."

 

 

She pouted. "I'm here to help. I'm always here to help. That's what friends are for, after all." 

 

 

She reached under the cot and drew out a small bundle. Sam gasped as he recognised his missing shirt, wrapped around a large kitchen knife which she now pulled out of the fabric. It chinked around the half-empty whisky bottle that was also wrapped up in the shirt. A whisky bottle that Sam now remembered getting from Nelson one night when really desperate. All three were heavily stained in blood. The girl put her finger to her lips again and smiled.

 

 

"Don't worry, Sam. I won't tell. And don't you worry about this. I'll take it away for safekeeping. After all, you never know when you'll need it again."

 

 

And with that, she vanished.

 

 

_fin_


End file.
